


sunny day

by monado



Series: callisto [1]
Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, fistfights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 19:24:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15613269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monado/pseuds/monado
Summary: Raiden tends to droop.





	sunny day

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this at 4am for the three of you who still browse this tag. amen

Raiden tends to droop. It makes Sam uncomfortable, feels like he’s seeing someone he knows but doesn't quite recognize -- it both is and it isn't the same man he watched cleave Monsoon into pieces, who cut Sam down with a fire unparalleled. It feels like a watered down version of who Raiden is supposed to be.

  
Logically, Sam knows as well as any soldier how easy it is to change, to slip into a skin saved for the battlefield. He also knows he never knew Raiden, not really, and travelling with someone you don't really know is bound to break any illusions you have about them.

  
It doesn't stop him from the niggling feeling he gets whenever Raiden goes still. And it doesn't stop him from sauntering up to goad him into a fight, pushing his buttons like clockwork. After all, an angry Jack is better than a Jack that hardly seems there.

  
\--

  
Sometimes, when Sam hasn't seen him for a few hours, Raiden will return his greetings with eyes heavy, back curving under its own weight. It’s isolated, doesn't leak into the rest of his actions -- he's not moody or upset or anything other than neutral, he’s just… deflated. If questioned, Raiden looks at him like he’s crazy.

  
He has that look about him now. He’s on the couch, probably scratching the hotel-owned leather, and he fits right in with the cold, modernist vibe of the place. All he’s doing is watching some pigeons duke it out on a railing outside, though, which breaks the illusion enough for Sam to pop the question.

  
“Doesn't it bother you?” Sam asks, pointing to his forehead and miming stripes.

  
Raiden blinks. “What?”

  
“The barcode.” He joins him, couch creaking dangerously under their combined weight. “Did they have to put it right in the centre of your forehead?”

  
Raiden’s nose flares, in a facsimile of a smile. “Dunno. Never thought about it much.”

  
“You haven't? It would drive me nuts.” Catching a glimpse of a seam just above it, Sam makes a quick movement to lean in. “Is that -- did they put it on your _real skin_?”

  
Raiden leans back, looking pointedly offended. He then makes a show of touching it, staring at a spot in the distance all the while. He puts his hands down after a moment. “Dunno. Can't feel it.”

  
Sam can't stop himself from huffing out a laugh, and is met with an incredulous stare. Jack’s eyes are clear and his thoughts easily read. It’s a rarity for a soldier. “Either way, we should put in a complaint. Nobody else out there is branded like a _package_.”

  
“Leave it.” The bite in Jack’s voice has Sam snapping to attention. The Raiden he knows best meets his gaze, but not in the way he likes. It's confrontational, but too defensive; aware of itself and challenging him to point it out.

  
He's never had too stable a grip on his self-preservation instincts. “Why?” he simply asks, matching Raiden’s stance, squaring his shoulders.

  
“Because it’s--” Raiden grinds his teeth together as he struggles to find the rest of his sentence. He scoffs, turning away from Sam in a huff, and scratches at his scalp.

  
“Because it’s what, Jack?” 

  
“It’s _nothing_ , Sam,” he hisses, neck snapping around to bare his teeth in a movement that never fails to make Sam’s pulse jump. Contradicting himself immediately, Raiden immediately adds, “It’s not as if it isn't obvious that I came in a box in the first place.”

  
Sam quirks an eyebrow. “I mean, yes, but one would think it’s a bit de-humanizing.”

  
Jack’s coiling. “In case you haven't noticed, Sam, I’m barely human,” he snarls, stance forward, centre of gravity placed to strike. Perhaps unconsciously so, but heat licks along Sam’s sides, and he pushes back the instinct to lean forward too.

  
“Wait, Jack, are you serious?” Raiden immediately sits up and turns away, unwilling to continue or perhaps embarrassed. “Do you really think that?”

  
Raiden stands up. “Leave it, Sam.” Finality is in his voice, but Sam doesn't have to accept it.

  
“No, Jack.”

  
It wasn't meant to be the totality of his statement, but Raiden cuts in, more than a few birds scattering outside as he raises his voice. “This has nothing to do with you! Can you go one day without being a stubborn prick? Keeping your nose out of my god damn business?”

  
The words bring him to his feet. He likes to think he’s doing alright with Jack -- he pushes him to open up, but not too hard, and he knows when to back off. And he knows, he really does, but the rotten temptation brewing inside him is taking over the better part of him, and he can't stop himself as he croons, “A _prick_? Harsh words, little Jack. Where'd you find that one?”

  
The fist coming for his cheek is expected but not anticipated. He staggers, shoving the couch as he catches himself on it. He pushes himself up and throws his shoulders into a swing. Raiden only seems too eager to take it.

  
Something in Sam findus gleeful joy in resorting to violence, spurred on by the knowledge that this is profoundly stupid, and won't help anyone over the long run. Adrenaline pumps through his veins, a siren song, and his thoughts take a back seat as Raiden begins to throw punches in earnest.

  
Right hook, caught. Uppercut, dodged. Knee to the gut, taken. The resulting shortness of breath is dizzying in the best way. Raiden comes in close, too close, and there’s blood leaking down his hand from contact with metal knuckles but he uses it to parry him anyway. Wide kick, read and backed away from. Raiden’s usually better than this.

  
As if aware of it, he charges at him, swinging kick after kick. Sam dances backwards, maneuvering around the small coffee table, waiting for his chance -- he grabs Raiden’s leg, twists it, Raiden loses balance. Uses the moment to rush forward, put himself on the offensive, he winds up and slams Raiden downwards. Raiden buckles forward, takes a knee, jabs Sam in the sternum as he’s following up. Sam wheezes, Raiden’s back up, punches him in the jaw, grabs the back of his head and sends him face-first into the ground.

  
Sam tastes blood. He grins, and can't help himself from laughing as he pushes his shoulders off the ground and wipes his mouth. Raiden has blood on his hands and blood on his mouth. He looks every bit the warrior he is.

  
Pushing himself to his feet, Sam feints a heavy strike, jabbing Raiden between plates of armour in a place he knows is similar in pain to the funny bone. Raiden cringes, falling over himself. He backs away, opening up the opportunity for Sam to swing at his face. His knuckles crack. Raiden staggers then laughs, a full sound, and Sam grins wider.

  
“Had enough, Jack?”

  
His metal bottom teeth are darkened with blood. Might’ve cut his cheek on them. “Never.”

  
They fly together, a dance of limbs and laughter, metallic tang in their noses and breath in their ears. They're too prideful to give in, even when their stomachs ache and their cheeks smart.

  
Sam manages to get a good shot in, and following up has him tripping over Raiden’s kick, and they tumble to the ground. They're panting too hard to laugh, but the mirth Sam feels in the air is real. Raiden is spread-eagle beside him, smiling as his chest heaves. Sam can feel his hair tickling his cheeks but he doesn't want to look away.

  
This is the best Raiden, by far.


End file.
